


My Home Is Wherever You Are

by Chronicler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Poor Theon, Ramsay is his own warning, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6732748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to the Game Of Thrones episode Home.</p><p>After Theon leaves Sansa in the capable hands of Brienne of Tarth, he heads home. But where is home for him now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Home Is Wherever You Are

Each step of the horse hurt as Theon rode, sending a sharp pain shooting up from his scarred groin.

Clop, clop, clop over the hard ground. Stab, stab, stab of pain.

The mud was compacted and solid. The long threatened winter had finally arrived.

Forests, fields, dredging through icy shallow rivers.

The dull white mare whinnied as Theon pulled too harshly on her reins. ‘Shhhh,’ he said leaning forward and stroking her mane, the shattered remnants of his teeth clattering together with each jolt. ‘ _Shhhh_. It’s all right.’ He laid his forehead against the warmth, closed his eyes, breathed in the comforting smell of coarse horsehair and sweat.

But each step reminded him. Reminded him of the ruined, empty flesh between his legs. Of Ramsay taking his manhood from him, taking _himself_ from him. Of long days filled with blades, strips of his own flesh sliced away. Of endless nights down on all fours as Ramsay took him, ripped twisted pleasure from him he wouldn’t have believed he was still capable of. Of ropes and chains keeping him in place, that were worse when they were gone because he could still _feel_ them and knew there was no escape.

He shook, gripped tight to the reins, the glare of the sun overhead as cold as the air.

But he was still alive. Somehow. And he was going home. Because there was nowhere else left to go.

Flayed, his body was a patchwork of scars, and he would never be whole again.

He rode all day, the pain throbbing through him till it was all there was left.

But finally, the sky behind bleeding as the sun slipped below the horizon, he saw it. Solid stone walls, big enough to house a village, and the familiar massive iron gate. To keep people out. To keep people in.

Slowly, it parted and swung open for him. Like he was expected. Of course he was.

The horse clomped inside, its steps ringing through the courtyard.

And there He stood. Ramsay Bolton, Bastard Lord of Winterfell. Waiting in the fading light, arms outstretched. The insane glint of violence in his eyes. His teeth showing. Ready to bite.

Theon tumbled exhausted from the horse. Hit the ground on his knees. He flung his thin, rag clad arms around Ramsay’s knees. His few remaining fingers grasped at thick, fine cloth. He was acutely aware of how filthy he was in comparison, but most of all his hands were stained with others blood he could never wash off. He knew down to his shattered bones he was no better than Ramsay.

Strong fingers grasped his hair, pulled back his head, bared his throat. Vaguely he heard the horse being led away, the gate slamming shut and the barricade falling back into place. Ramsay leaned down over him, the fire of rage burning in his eyes even as his manic smile grew. As always he stank of raw meat. ‘Reek, my Reek, I knew you’d come back to me! But you stole my bride, _and_ my mistress: Reek, Reek, it rhymes with _sneak_. All that's left is you now – as stupid as you are, you planned this well. You wanted _all_ my attention didn't you, pet? You should know not to make me angry; I have to punish you now, but you’ll learn, won’t you? I have such sights to show you. Who do you love, Reek?’

‘You, only you, My Lord, always,’ Reek said, the words tumbling breathless out of him as he cowered on the ground but looked up into icy blue eyes he knew he would drown in. That he was embracing sweet agony.

But a peace settled over him.

Theon had known when he arrived at Winterfell as a child that he would never leave. Would never again belong to the land of his father.

He had been right.

Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands was dead.

And, as Ramsay’s monstrous hands bundled him up and dragged him inside the cold, empty castle, all Reek felt was relief.

After all, in the end, he was home.


End file.
